


The White Cloak

by Southbroom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne is the Best, Brienne the Blue, Childhood, Crush, F/M, Kingsgaurd, this is mostly a fic about Brienne and her journey to knighthood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-01-30 10:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12651432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southbroom/pseuds/Southbroom
Summary: A few months before Robert's Rebellion, Brienne of Tarth visits King's Landing with her father.A glance into the head of a much younger Brienne.





	1. Chapter 1

She was livid when her father informed her that they would be leaving Tarth. 

According to Brienne, it had been a long and unending winter. But Maester Cedreck said that spring came earlier than he anticipated. You could hardly blame Brienne for thinking four years was simply too long for Tarth to be stuck in the miserable winter of hail and downpour. Four years, after all, was about half of Brienne's life.

So when spring did arrive on their small isle, Brienne was in total awe. It started slowly - with a few bare trees opening lime green leaves. Then the fishmongers informed the castle that they spotted mackerel coming up the coast. And so with the summer sea life returning, so did the land animals. Creatures climbed out of their holes, green pastures became speckled with daffodils. What impressed Brienne most was the blossoms. All the fruit trees outside Evenfall's walls smiled with puffs of white, pink and purple. 

Each morning, Brienne and Ser Goodwin would ride through the Tarth's Porcupine Forest and up the vales to the mountains. She would dread returning for luncheon to do classes with Septa Roelle. Tarth promised so many adventures and forlorn corners to explore. It was no use being caught up inside when the world was calling her to go and climb trees and gallop Sampson up and down the golden sands of the beach. 

Brienne missed her home like a hole in her chest, especially when she compared the flowery smell of Tarth to the reeking sewage of King’s Landing.

"Come here, girl." Septa Roelle hissed, tugging at her collar. "What have you done to your hair, my lady, gone out to roll in a haystack? Gods..." the Septa trailed off, shaking her head and pulling violently at the plats on Brienne's skull.

"Ouch." She groaned.

"You must look presentable for the King." The Septa lectured, "That includes putting that scowl back where you left it, young lady."

Brienne straightened her face and kept her gaze on the gates ahead of her. Her father was up ahead, battering instructions to to the Gold Cloaks of the city guard. 

“I was summoned by the King to attend a regional meeting with all the lords of the Stormlands. You don’t believe me? He signed it himself on this decree.”

Lord Selwin stuffed to letter into the guard’s hand. He starred at in blankly. The man obviously couldn’t read.

“Oh, for the sake of the Mother, the Father, the Maiden and the Warri-“ Selwyn began.

“Its all right, Belrick.” A voice spoke, distinctly Dornish. “Allow Lord Selwyn and his party to pass. I was informed of your arrival this morning, my Lord.”

The knight appeared from behind the great gate. He had a soft face. Even from a distance, Brienne could tell he had kind, inquisitive eyes. Her heart jumped when she saw that dragging behind him was a cape of the purest white. It shimmered in the sunlight, making the knight glow. _It must be one of the Kingsgaurd!_ she though excitedly. Was this one Ser Barrister Selmy, or Ser Gerold Hightower? Wait, he is Dornish! That must mean-

“That’s Arthur Dayne, Lady Brienne.” Ser Goodwin told her in a low voice. “The Sword-“

“The Sword of the Morning.” Brienne finished automatically. She stared in amazement as the cart rolled past him. The slayer of the Smiling Knight was standing right there, mere steps from her, in living flesh. It was the man who broke twelve lances against Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Brienne’s jaw dropped when she saw the handsome pommel of the sword sticking out of its scabbard. _That must be the legendary Starcaper of the Dayne family!_  

She was beginning to think that it wasn’t all that bad to be in King’s Landing after all. 

“Close your mouth, my Lady.” Roelle scolded, “A true lady never opens her mouth except when engaged in polite conversation.”

“Yes, Septa.” Brienne groaned.

“Now, who again is the lord your father is pledged to?”

“Lord Steffon Baratheon.”

“Of?”

“Of Storm’s end.”

“And the Baratheon’s words are?”

“‘Ours is the fury.’”

“And who is the Hand of the King?”

“Lord Tywin Lannister of House Lannister, warden of the West. The Lannisters are ancient Kings of Lannisport. Their sigil is a golden lion against a crimson background. Their words are ‘Hear me Roar’, often confused with: ‘A Lannister always pays his debts’. And the Lannisters and the wealthiest of all the houses. This is because of their gold mines and ties with the Iron Bank of Braavos.” Brienne said in a monotone, gazing dully at her Septa.

“Don’t be haughty, Brienne.” her father warned, riding beside the carriage on his stallion. “Septa Roelle is only trying to help.”

Soon they were in the vast antechamber of the throne room. Grasping her father’s arm, Brienne walked into the hall. Brienne blushed at the feeling of all the eyes of court upon them. There was an enormous assembly of people wearing the fashion of the day. The ladies styled long sweeping sleeves and integrate platted hairstyles. The lords boasted heels boots and embroidered tunics. And they all seemed to be glaring at her. But why are you here? 

The answer sat at the end of the hall. Perched high onto of the top of the platform was a figure with a wisp of silver hair. _Aerys_ , she knew. 

The King screamed superiority as they approached him. The skulls of dragons lined the side of the hall, lit up by lines of flaming torches. They seemed to be roaring. The Iron Throne, built with the swords of all the defeated Targaryen enemies, made the King look fierce. To add to his might, six additional White Cloaks stood guard beside him.

“Your Grace.” her father bowed low.

“Your Grace.” Brienne mirrored, bending forward before remembering that she had to curtsey. She almost stumbled over. Roelle was going to skin her.

“Who is this now?” The King jeered. 

“Lord Selwyn of the Isle of Tarth and his young daughter.” a voice announced. 

“Tarth?” The man sounded irritated. “I never summoned any minor lord from Tarth!” 

King Aerys fisted his hands into each side of the throne. Brienne was surprised with they did not come out bleeding - the chair being made of blades and all.

“Your Grace, if you recall, Lord Selwyn was summoned to King’s Landing for the meeting involving the Lords of the Stormlands.” a plump man explained quietly. Brienne wrinkled her nose at the funny slippers and patterned silks that the man wore. However strange-looking, the man seemed to know how to manage the sudden fury that the king expressed.

“I am here to once again pledge allegiance to House Targaryen, your Grace.” Brienne’s father nearly kissed the floor as he bent the knee. “Whatever unrest may arise in your Seven Kingdoms, House Tarth and the people of my quiet island remain faithful servants of the crown."

King Aerys’s lips quirked upwards suddenly. Then, over-brightly, the King said: “You please me, Lord Seldon. I invite you to luncheon with me and my wife. Just leave your offspring out of sight. The only thing worse than children is uncivil children. Is that your son?” 

“My daughter, your Grace. Brienne.” her father said.  

Brienne heard the hall erupt into giggles and felt her throat close. She felt hopeless and, shamefully, on the verge of tears. It pained her that her father did not come to her defence as he always did. No one dared raise their voice to a king. Least of all the Mad King, Brienne thought darkly as the King dissolved into manic laughter.  

“Now get out my sight!” The King demanded, “Send Lord Seldon’s daughter to chambers. I don’t want this lumbering wench in my sight a moment longer.” he said, violet eyes narrowing as they met Brienne’s. 

Just as she thought the man seemed done with his bullying, he stood up from his seat. Half of the hall rose with him and waited in anticipation for what he had to say.

“Lannister!” he barked up at the ceiling, muttering under his breath. Several moments later he returned back at the people of the hall, teeth flashing as he grinned, “Lannister, yes, you Lannister. I command you to escort the little lady and her servants away.”

"At once, your Grace."

One of the White Cloaks bowed and directly approached her. She followed the guard back out of the throne room. 

Once outside, Septa Roelle pulled Brienne tightly against her breast. Brienne had kept her head high in the hall, but could not help the tears from rolling as her Septa comforted her.

“Don’t you listen to what he said. Don’t you listen to what any of them say.” the Septa told her, rubbing circles into the girl’s back, “You are a young lady. A respectable and honourable daughter to Lord Selwyn. What the King says is cruel and false. He is mad, remember?” she whispered.

 _What the king says is law_ , she heard herself think. And if the King could deduce that she is more of a boy than a girl by less that two minutes, what must she be compared to her frilly female cousins? How could she complete with the graceful girls of court? How will her father ever find her a suitor?

The White Cloak returned with a crew of servants that carried Brienne, her father, Septa Roelle and Ser Goodwin’s crates. The knight pointed in the direction of the stairs and the men followed suit. 

‘Lannister’ is what the King had called him, which meant the knight could only be Ser Jaime Lannister, eldest son of Tywin Lannister. The Young Lion, they called him. He was the newest member of the Royal Guard. Perhaps that was why King Aerys made Ser Jaime escort Brienne and Roelle. But however fresh the knight may be, escorting minor nobility was hardly a suited job for one of the seven best warriors on the continent. 

Septa Roelle skimmed over their lodgings once they arrived. “This will be satisfactory.” she told Ser Jaime, “Only where is Brienne’s sewing pack?”

“I can go and fetch it.” a servant offered. 

“It was on under the cockpit of that wagon we came in.”

“Under the where?” the servant enquired. His accent was something Brienne was not accustomed to. Was this how the small folk of King’s Landing spoke?

Roelle rolled her eyes, “Let me come with you, boy. Stay here, Brienne. Please do not touch anything.”

Brienne stayed in the centre of the chamber, as per instruction. She was watching Ser Jaime idly as he stood guard at the door. The uniform of the Kingsgaurd was immaculate, like a great painting that got more interesting the longer you stared at it. 

Ser Goodwin had not been lying when he said that the armour of the White Cloaks was white. She pondered at how long the knights must polish their armour for it so shine so much. Then again, a knight of the Kingsgaurd probably didn’t waste their time doing mundane tasks such was polishing armour. 

When she compared Ser Arthur Dayne to Ser Jaime’s, she thought the younger knight wore the armour much better. There was something about the stance of the man, or perhaps it was his better looks, but Brienne thought the golden finishes on the white armour better complimented Ser Jaime perfectly. _This knight with his blonde hair, he is a vision_ , she thought, _he is like the knights from the stories_.

Ser Jaime turned to her just as she was gazing at the blade on his hip. He frowned lightly and she glued her eyes to the floor, embarrassed. 

Why did the knight seem so annoyed? Was it because of the way Aerys treated him? 

Ser Jaime could not be much older that she was. He was named Kingsgaurd at only sixteen, making him round about seventeen now. Brienne realised, in awe, that he was only eight years her superior and already at the peak of knighthood.

“What are you looking at?” 

His eyes flashed in irritation. Green eyes, she noted, blushing. 

She thought of a thousand things to say, one thousand things to ask, but never did the words leave her mouth. How do you even begin to speak to one of your idols. It seemed a century before her septa returned and when she did, Roelle thanked Jaime for watching Brienne while she was away. 

Then, as sculpted as he was standing guard, he was gone. 

Without an ounce on tact, Brienne rushed to the doorframe. She watched his tall form clink and clank as he moved. His golden curls flopped with the wide strides he took. His white cloak swooshed in the breeze.

“Brienne of Tarth!” Roelle called.

She took one last glance at the Lion of Lannister and whined when she saw that Roelle had taken out embroidery for her to do.

x


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, what I would give to roam to streets of King’s Landing.

 

Fleabottom had been engraved in Brienne’s head as the most unfortunate place in the world. But Brienne’s bedtime stories neglected to describe the smell of the slum. The place reeked of fish and sick. Just as they passed a rickety shack, the contents of a chamber pot came hurling down from the top window. Brienne shuddered.

“Oh, why can’t we go on an outride?” she asked, miserable.

“The Kingswood is not a safe place, my lady.” Ser Goodwin repeated, “All the outlaws which the King banished from the city settle outside the walls. You father would have a heart attack I took a small girl like yourself out alone.”

Brienne pouted, digging her fingers deeper into Ser Goodwin’s hair. How could the outlaws of a sinking city be worse than the pirates on Tarth? Those pirates came from Essos, and they looked much more frightening than any of the men she’d seen in King’s Landing. The only thing scaring Brienne off from the begging men and woman on the side of the alleys was their filth, not the fact that they carried arakhs and had pierced noses.

Brienne wondered how anyone could possible navigate through the maze-like alleys and find their way about, but Ser Goodwin seemed very adjusted to the city. Septa Roelle had once mentioned that Ser Goodwin had lived in King’s Landing as a little boy. She wondered if he sat begging in the street before he won the tourney at Storm’s End and went on to squire for her father.

“Don’t you worry, milady. You are going to like this.” He said cheerfully. She had trouble believing him.

Once they left the muddy alleys of Fleabottom, Ser Goodwin lowered Brienne onto the street cobbles.

 _This is a market_ , Brienne noted. It was defiantly not the conventional fish market she was accustomed to. There was great orange and maroon sails sheltering the sellers from the morning sun, and the stalls where lined with all things metallic and fantastic.

Swords, shields, spears and gleaming armour lined the streets. Brienne squealed in excitement.

“You there! Yes you, good Ser! Fancy a new scabbard for that mighty blade of your’s? Made from the finest pigskin in the Seven Kingdoms, I promise.”

 “Perhaps a dagger for de little lady? Protection from ‘em nasty crooks?”

 “Half-price on helmets! Spring special!”

 Ser Goodwin smiled at Brienne, “This is the Street of Steel. The best place in the city to buy anything to do with swordplay.”

 “Woah, is that a greatsword?” Brienne asked eagerly.

 “Yes.”

 “Is that an _axe_?”

 “No. But that is a battle-axe. It’s not meant for chopping wood. The Baratheons are quiet famous for using the battle-axe.”

 Brienne lent in close against the weapon. She could see her reflection in it. It turned whiter as she grinned.

 “Isn’t this thing too slow to swing around?”

 “If you had muscles like Robert Baratheon then I don’t think anything could be heavy to lift.”

 They drifted up and down the market. Brienne gaped at the dragon-shaped helmets and boiled leather tunics. The craftsmanship of the goods was leagues above the dusty contents of Evenfall’s armoury. She wondered if Ser Goodwin brought her to the market to buy her a sword. Brienne was tempted to ask him for one, but thought better of it.

 Septa Roelle would never allow Brienne to wield more than a wooden sword. It was already beyond inappropriate for Brienne to have started training with Ser Goodwin in the first place. Brienne was lucky that her father had allowed her to continue her self-defence lessons, but she knew that the days were wearing thin. Soon she would spend her full days with Septa Roelle and her cousins in the tea garden. Sooner still her father would marry her off to some Lord and he would protect her. _It is not the place of a lady to complete the tasks of a man_ , Brienne recalled her Septa telling her, scowling at her craped knees after a morning with Ser Goodwin.

 Yet, there are some fates that the Gods decided long before a Septa had the chance to mould them.

 A particular sword caught Brienne’s eye. It had a bronze handle with swirling patterns on it. The blade was polished and silver, not too thick and not too long.

 “Can I help you?” a man called.

 “Goodwin.” Ser Goodwin shook the man’s hand.

 “Tobho Mott.” The blacksmith said, rubbing his calloused hands on his apron, “And who are you, milady?”

 Brienne was stunned, frozen in shock.

 “ ’Tis the good daughter of Ser Selwyn of Tarth.” Ser Goodwin said, “If you would forgive Lady Brienne. She can be shy at times.”

 “Not a bother, milady. M’ little son is just as bashful. Mind you, he’d sti’ a totter.” Brienne hardly understood the man’s accent, except for the words that followed: “Do you like that sword?”

 Before she knew what was happening, the little boy – the blacksmith’s son – thrust the sword into her hand. It was heavy, dense. Brienne tightened her grip and lifted it above her hip. Her feet fell into the stance she had been taught. The seaside breeze played with her messy hair and Brienne’s eyes dipped closed, embracing the feeling.

 “This one I crafted myself. It’s made for smaller, more agile fighters. It will be good for her to start training with it. How old is she, twelve? Her first tourney should be coming up bitterly quick. A well-crafted sword is half the way to success.”

 Brienne was stunned. The blacksmith was speaking to Ser Goodwin as if Brienne acquiring a sword was the most natural thing in the world. As if her femininity was no problem. As if there was no prospect of marriage and courtship and tableside manners.

 The blacksmith’s son, a grubby boy with blue eyes and black hair, was looking at Brienne in admiration. The blacksmith was consulting prices, but Ser Goodwin took no notice of him. The knight was staring at Brienne and her perfect stance, her even shoulders and smiling blue eyes. The girl was in love.

 

x

 

At the foot of Baelor the Blessed’s statue, Ser Goodwin purchased a bread for Brienne. It was sweet in taste except for the horrible purple berries inside it. But even the bitter taste could not steal Brienne’s smile. She could not stop thinking about the blacksmith and the Street of Steal.

 

What did make her stomach turn was the sight of Roelle. She marching towards her and Ser Goodwin, her face curdling at the sight of Brienne.

“Brienne! What did you do to your dress? Gracious heavens! Why are you eating with your hands?”

She snatched the bread from her hands, shooting Ser Goodwin a murderous look.

“Where did you take her?”

“A market.” said Ser Goodwin innocently. Brienne giggled. If Roelle knew where they’d been…

“Come, Brienne. It is time to pray. The Gods granted strength to Baelor so he could build the world most magnificent Sept. And the daylight is nearly up for us the glace upon it! It is entirely in your interest to come with, Ser.” Roelle snapped.

“I shall leave you ladies to it.”

Brienne shot him a pleading look.

“I have duties with Lord Selwyn’s horses.” Ser Goodwin said, smiling sadly at Brienne, before taking his leave.

Even at nine years old, few things dwarfed Brienne of Tarth. She was the size of most fourteen-year-old-boys, with legs like marble pillars and an awkward, bent posture she had adopted in order to take up less space. But under the altars of the seven gods, Brienne was reduced to the size of a child, tugging on the robes of her Septa.

Roelle had lead Brienne into the building the Stanger’s doors. There was a murder of Silent Sisters eyeing Brienne where she stood. She scurried away, frightened by the mysterious gaze of the nuns under their robes.

Then, at once, they were on the main floor. The ceiling was taller than all the walls of the Red Keep, and light flooded in from all the stained glass windows. Flocks of people stood praying on the tiled floor. In Fleasbottom and inside the Keep, the people of King’s Landing mixed like water and oil. Inside Baelor’s Sept noble ladies knelt beside beggars. Children hand their hands clasped in the same gestures as old men.

Brienne spied Septa Roelle, who had collapsed under the Crone’s gaze in prayer. Brienne tried to catch the old Septa’s attention, but she seemed deep in thought. A few candles were lit by her knees, fluttering as she exhaled.

With amusement, Brienne realised that the Crone statue had her own lantern, just as the illustrations showed in the _Seven Pointed Star_. She pondered over the fact that one of the Septas and Septors would have to climb up a ladder to keep the light inside the giant lantern burning.

Brienne wanted to prey, just like the rest of the townsfolk. She wanted to go to the altar of the Maiden, the usual God which she prayed to, but he floor was packed with other little girls and young women.

Not for the first time, Brienne wondered about her place at the maiden’s side. Brienne thought of how she had buckled into a bow instead of a curtsey in front of the King. She thought of how she couldn’t talk about dresses and braiding hair with her cousins. She thought back to Street of Steel, of how good it had felt to hold a _real_ sword in her hands. Cautiously, as if fearing someone would stop her in the place of worship, Brienne gazed at the Warrior.

The Warrior’s statue had a furrowed brow and tall stature. He held a sword and a shield and gazed down threateningly at Brienne. She felt her chest fill with respect and excitement – but also with regret. She wasn’t supposed to like swords, but she defiantly shouldn’t pray to the God of combat. That would be a direct insult to her father and her her house.

Brienne settled at the far side of statue so that if Septa Roelle accused her of playing to the wrong God, Brienne could say that she was sitting in the middle to address all the Gods at once.

She clasped her palms together, preparing to give thanks to the Warrior for allowing her to see the Street of Steel, but something shiny caught Brienne’s eye. She saw (not without jumping) the young Lion of Lannister himself and Ser Arthur Dayne closest to the Warrior’s feet.

A herd of buzzing Septas came to shrine the two White Cloaks with candles. Some of the smallfolk had noticed the knights too, Brienne saw. A bunch of the Maiden’s devoted believers occasionally stole glances at the knights. Majority of the boys knelt at angles so that they could hear what Ser Arthur was saying.

Dayne seemed to be lecturing Ser Jaime, about what? Brienne could only dream. Their swords lay presented in front of them, as well as two white Kingsgaurd helmets. Ser Arthur was talking in a low, inaudible voice from where Brienne was sitting, but the young knight was listening intently. Unlike the day that Ser Jaime showed Brienne to her chambers, his face was not twisted into a frown. His eyes were closed, as if he was asleep, with his empty hands facing up the Warrior.

She wondered how long she sat there, wishing that she could move closer to hear what Ser Arthur was saying. The older knight eventually rose, leaving Ser Jaime to pray alone, yet Brienne stayed on the periphery.

Unwillingly, she blinked away her tears, wondering why she felt at home amongst the knights while she born to wear a dress. It was her curse from the Gods, she knew. 

x

 


End file.
